Blood and Gore, À La Mode
by Dream's Penumbra
Summary: Because blood, gore and sweets were the coolest things /ever/ at the time of the Thirty-second Hunger Games. SYOT - please submit!
1. Prologue

**Location: [censored], Panem**

**Date: [censored]**

It was a fantastic day, thought Gamemaker Otho Lydeard, for playing golf (the old-time favorite) or _sailing_ (his newfound passion) - especially after Glass & Locks had released that superb glass-and-steel yacht with a the new backseat designs. Alas, this unusually heavenly weather was wasted for inspecting the construction of the Thirty-second Hunger Games arena.

The fairly young Gamemaker was famous for his creativity - and, he supposed, for his cruelty - in his arenas, not for his diligence. It was pure luck he'd risen to such a position in the Hunger Games society. Or pure genius, as he liked to think of it. And he was bored.

He yawned once again and gestured an Avox over. Otho inspected the silver tray, taking a Mont Blanc for himself and offering come of the snacks to his friend and fellow Gamemaker Camilla Lubiance.

"Cake - want some? You know, Camilla, I was thinking about making the third layer choco - " he made it that far before Lubiance quickly muffled his last words with one heart-tattooed hand.

"Shh!" the young woman glanced at their Head Gamemaker, apprehensive. "You know how Tarq - uh, Gamemaker Ransom gets around chocolate!"

Lydeard's eyes widened as he too stared at the youngest Head Gamemaker in history (or so was claimed), remembering the last time she'd come near the stuff. It had been the party for their last Victor, and the rest of the world had thought she'd had an overdose of the wine pudding - President Thames had forbidden proper alcohol at those parties, a shame, the Gamemaker thought. He had to suppress a snort at the memory of the usually perfectly groomed Gamemaker staggering around like a madwoman.

The Mont Blanc slid out of his loose fingers, and Otho made a leap for it, intending for a movie-style grab-and-slide. Unfortunately, his plans were laid to waste when Camilla also ducked down for the tart, stumbling over Lydeard and smashing to the ground. The Mont Blanc - that damned trickster - rolled just out of reach of Lydeard and executed a superb landing for only a tart, hitting the ground in pristine condition.

"What's happening here?" asked the (in)famous Head Gamemaker Tarquinius Ransom. Despite her name, she was female - her mother had named her when she was high, using the most popular and horrifying name generator in all Panem's history. Or so she claimed. Seeing the two Gamemakers in a messy pile behind her, the young woman's brow furrowed.

"Since you two seem to be quite _bored_," she said in a clipped voice, oblivious to Lydeard's exaggerated motions of assent, "may I request to know what that dark layer in the middle is? I'm quite sure it wasn't in the plans."

Gamemaker Lydeard dusted himself off extravagantly, coming next to Ransom to lean against the rail. His hood had slid back, revealing his bunny ears, an embarrassing result of a nighttime dare.

"That," the young man said, "is the blackcurrant jam."

The Head Gamemaker blinked.

"Since our original theme was to place the Hunger Games in a cake," continued Lydeard, "I though of ways I could make the arena move while still keeping the theme. I took motivation from an old science documentary. _Shocking_ what those 'Americans' believed long ago, but moving on - the area above the jam is flaming pudding. At three o' clock in the afternoon, every day in the arena, the pudding is lit on fire via streams of brandy which are set alight. This means that the jam underneath, specially concocted to be runny when melted, turning the jam layer from simply a layer to an underground river. The builders will balance the pudding layer just so that the layers above are set just so that they too move when the blackcurrant jam flows. I have inserted multiple traps that are triggered when the layers move. For instance, an avalanche of candied cherries. And in another place, those little cream mushroom thingies exploding. You get the idea?"

Gamemaker Ransom was silent for a moment. Despite his attitude, there was a reason why Otho Lydeard was head of his department.

"Very good." She managed. "But why did you not present this to the others yet? We had a progress meeting just yesterday."

"I watched that science program after the meeting."

With that, the young man turned and wandered away, engaging in conversation with Camilla again.

Watching Otho Lydeard walk away, Gamemaker Ransom sighed and turned back to the construction. When she was gone - which could be quite soon, if these Games were a disaster - he would take her place, lazy, brilliant Otho Lydeard.

_I wonder what the Hunger Games will be like with Lydeard as Head Gamemaker...?_

* * *

_A/N_

_Mont Blanc = Coward Mont Blanc. xD Also inspired by Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs, mostly. And a quote from page 96 of 'The Hunger Games'.  
_

_For more info, please check out www . fanfiction topic / 94671 / 65481993 / 1 / #66004289  
_

_These Gamemakers will probably be only a small factor in this SYOT. Would love it if you participated! :D  
_


	2. Reaping D1F

**Firstly, this is a SYOT. Visit my profile and please _submit!_ All spots except the D1F, D3F, and D6M, are open, and the last one might be open if I can't get in contact with the promised submitter... after all these months. Fail.**

**Now onto the writing!**

* * *

**Location: District One, Panem**

**Date: Reaping Day**

Tall, bright buildings, obsidian factories spewing glitter waste, rows of shops where diamonds were cut, and a glass dome even bigger than the marble temple-style town hall, where teens are taught to kill, complete with immaculately swept streets. Streams of trucks polished bright red and gleaming with the insignia of the Capital make their traffic-jammed way out of the stylish silver gates, packed full of fur coats, luxury furniture, and jewelry. This is District One, the Capital's favorite pet. Its indulgent beehive, so busily churning out twelve-pound golden crowns by the dozen.

A helicopter lands on the roof of the town hall with thirty-one cameras attached in varying angles on every available surface it has to offer. A Peacekeeper salutes as its occupants as they hop down from their seats.

"How charming!" squeals Lissa, the escort and/or MC for part one of the Hunger Games Reapings. Holding a neon-pink microphone accentuated by bits of even more neon green, she bounces around on her heels and gushes about how lovely the luxury district is. "Ladies and gents, District One is looking _adorable_ today. Shall we pop over to the training center for a brief chat with the tributes before we see the Reaping?"

The clock on the town hall, a huge glass circle less than five feet from where Lissa is making an absolute fool of herself, shows that the time is 0628AM. The Reaping is held bright and early in the morning, so that the Capital watchers could have them streamed live, from One all the way to Twelve. Everything is arranged for the pleasure of the audience.

Lissa leads the way to the sparkling training center. It's a huge glass dome, its doors hissing open to let Lissa and her camera crew inside. Technically, it's illegal, but the Capital entertainment division has long since found that the watchers seem to love the idea of a training center with kids from four to eighteen almost as much as a fight to the death.

"As well-kept as always!" Lissa exclaims. Quite short, although she could've gotten height surgery years ago - if she feels dwarfed by the muscled brutes surrounding her, she doesn't show it.

The cameramen give watchers a long view of the training center. They're in the big gymn now, full of boys and girls of all ages busy trying to kill each other in controlled environments. A strongly-built, blonde-haired boy tackles a shorter boy and forces him into a painful hold. A sharp-eyed girl shoots a heart pattern on her target. A narrow, lean boy smirks at the camera.

Lissa wanders up to a random tribute - or at least, it seems to be.

"Hello, there!" she pipes, pink eyes twinkling with enthusiasm. "You seem to be quite skilled with that axe!"

The girl looks up. Brown-haired and brown-eyed, she'd be quite average if not for the obvious and large amount muscle that she's built up. She holds her axe proudly, a four-foot long thing with a razor-sharp end and a well-worn handle.

"Yes, I am. Nice to meet you."

Lissa coos. "Such confidence! What's your name?"

"Majesty," the Career replies. "Majesty Kaufmann."

"And your specialty's the axe?"

"Yes - would you like a demonstration?" Majesty smiles, already facing the practice rings.

"Yes _please_, Majesty!"

The cameramen gather around the ring towards which Majesty strides, shoulders squared and confident. One of her friends nods to her, and Majesty nods back, axe ready. The girl presses down on a blue button.

A barrage of balls the size of oranges blast from pipes circling the ring. Majesty freezes, then lunges, slicing a ball - the only ball with spikes. The rest bounce of harmlessly.

"Lovely!" squeaks Lissa.

In the next ten seconds Majesty slices twelve spiked balls out of the air and faces the camera proudly.

"The objective of the practice is the find the one lethal ball in the thirty that are blasted towards you, and eliminate the threat," says a man who must be her coach, coming over from where he was watching Majesty. "Observation and quick reaction time. I try to teach my students that."

"Oh! Mr. Kaufmann!" Lissa's eyes widen in fake shock. "Was that young warrior over there your daughter?"

Carnelian Kaufmann smiles, a tall, lithe man in his late forties. One of the most famed Games coaches in District One, he holds his knives and clipboard as naturally as one would hold a couple of hot irons. "Yes, she is, Miss Jorkins."

"Oh my, you must be so proud!" Lissa giggles. "But please call me Lissa! We'll be looking forward to seeing dear Majesty in the Games!" She turns, blonde curls whirling. "Now, to the Reaping!"

* * *

The lawn in front of the town hall is crowded with people. Excited, yelling, an obstreperous gaggle of people who were all too excited for the blood-spilling to begin. The other half of the district hang back, talking quietly among themselves, some not even daring to do that. Not everyone loves the Hunger Games, even in the Capital's favorite district.

Lissa Jorkins stands at the podium at the front, a small, but violent clash of neon green cloth and pink sparkles and blonde hair. She twirls, facing the entirety of District One.

"Hello, hello!" She shouts.

District One bellows back.

"Happy Hunger Games," she screams.

"And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" the district cries.

"Yay~" Lissa claps and smiles beatifically. "Mr. Mayor?"

The mayor steps forward to recite the Treaty of Treason - possibly the most boring part of the Reaping. He seems to know this as he hurries through the speech - "_Henceforth and forevermore this pageant shall be known as The Hunger Games._" - and finishes quite quickly. The whole district breathes a sigh of relief when Lissa takes over again.

"Thank you, Mr. Mayor!" she sings happily. Her hands dance over to the Reaping ball, before she freezes, looking almost comically surprised. "Oh, dear me! I almost forgot!"

The short woman prances over to a square, black column that stands in the middle of the podium. "Any girl wishing to volunteer for this year's Reaping, please come forward and press your thumb to the screen on this scanner here!"

The district shouts something in complaint.

"My, my, I'm really ditzy today!" laughs Majesty. "Alright then - three, two, one, _go_!"

Two girls trip over each other as they run for the scanner, tumbling across each other and quickly getting caught in their own little catfight, punching and twisting and screaming.

"Ooooh!" Lissa's voice is breathless as Majesty bursts from her line. Heads turn and voices cheer as the eighteen-year-old lopes, unrivaled, to the podium. She's a fighter rather than a charmer, but with more wits than most, is the message she's sending as she steps up to the scanner. Grinning smugly, she leans over to press her thumb onto the screen when -

"Gadfly."

It's a taller girl - taller, but not younger, with waves of dark brown hair curling around her shoulders and a round face that's _quite_ similar to Majesty's. She punches, steps back, steps right, twirls, and kicks back with a satisfying _crunch._

"Oh my, my, my!"

Majesty gasps, hands flitting up to a face smeared with makeup and blood. The other girl steps forward and drops low before sweeping Majesty's legs from beneath her. All her training hasn't been for nothing, for she manages to turn and keep herself from falling. The other girl swoops in again, punching at stomach, chest, and jaw, then kicking her square in the gut before cartwheeling forward to slam her heel into Majesty's right side.

It's an unnecessarily fancy move, but it works.

Majesty falls off the podium, nose considerably squishier, hair flying free of her bun, white dress stained red and right arm twisted at an unnatural angle. A boy rushes from the eighteen-year-olds sector to gather her up and get her to the medics, who are always present at a Reaping. District One is always prepared, although this was the first time a prospective tribute was actually knocked unconscious.

The girl

The district is silent. Then;

"Woohoo!"

A dark-haired boy climbs onto a chair and cheers. "Go, Pros!"

The girl smiles. She walks up to the scanner and dries her hands of blood on her skirt before pressing her thumb into the scanner. The screen behind them lits up with her picture; a seventeen-year-old girl, dark, almost black hair tied up in a messy ponytail, looking a little disheveled with those round gray eyes and strands of hair scattered across her forehead. Her name flashes beneath her photo, alongside the number one.

Lissa smiles like a child and reaches up to put Prosperity's arm. She manages - barely.

"Lades and gents, may I introduce this year's first tribute - _**Prosperity Kaufmann!**_"

* * *

**Thank you, Lupus Overkill, for Prosperity. (And her sister, too, I s'pose!) This fic is oooooooold, but with not that much development. Buuut I'm changing that. Please submit, everyone! :D You can find the form on my profile and on District 15.**

**I own nothin'~**


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